Man of Many Minds/Chapter 18
A few nights later one of the junior engineers came running into the office where Hanlon and Philander were playing chess.
“Trouble down in Stope Four,” he gasped.
Philander jumped up, upsetting the board. He grabbed his glo-light and started out.
“Want me along, sir?” Hanlon asked.
“Might as well,” and Hanlon ran with them.
Down in the mine they found, after examination, that it was not as bad as it at first seemed. Some timbers had rotted away—or had not been good wood in the first place—and a rock fall had occurred. But once they started working at it, they found it not too big. Hanlon was sent running for the rest of the men, and in a few hours everything was all tight again.
Back in the office Hanlon picked up the fallen chess pieces while Philander and the engineers talked for some time. When they left Hanlon asked, “Want to finish the game—or rather, since the board was upset, want to play another?”
“Better make it a rain-check. I've got some paper work I should do. Make it tomorrow.”
“That's okay with me. I'll go hit the hay.”
“Thanks for your help tonight, George. You pitched in so gladly, while the others were surly and grumbling. It was very noticeable, and I appreciate it. You're a good kid. Wish I had one just like you.”
Hanlon flushed a bit, and couldn't meet his friend eye to eye. “I was glad to do it,” he said lamely. “'Night,” and he ran out. Blast it, he thought, I hate using Pete that way, 'cause he's really a swell egg underneath. But the job's more important.
A few nights later they had finished the second game, and the elder had won both. He was consequently in very good humor, for the two were so evenly matched it was seldom either ever won two games in the same evening.
Philander leaned back in his chair and smiled at the younger man. “Well, George, the freighter'll be here in three days, and I'm sending you back for your vacation.”
“Gee, thanks, Chief. That's swell of you. I'm going to miss you, but I'll admit I'll be glad to get away from this awful climate for a while. This place sure gets my goat—I can't seem to get used to it all.”
“Then you won't want to come back?” There was disappointment in the question.
“Oh, no, I didn't mean that. I sure will be back if I can make it. Maybe this job isn't exactly what I'd dreamed about,” he had to hedge that statement a bit, and tried to make a sincere-sounding explanation, “but that thousand credits a month is!”
“That reminds me—I want to be sure to recommend you for a good bonus. You deserve it more'n any guard we've ever had here. Then, too, your ideas of rotating your crew, and especially that fertilizer deal, have raised the effective work-life and speed of the natives almost thirty percent. I figured it out, and they'll be getting off cheap if they give you what I'm recommending—two months pay as a bonus.”
“Yowie!” Hanlon yelled, making his face show excitement, and that curious avarice he had so carefully built up in these suspicious men's minds. “That'll make me six thou in four months. I'll be rich yet!”
“You and your urge for money,” Philander laughed, yet there was a curious undertone of almost-contempt in his voice. “Why're you so hipped on that subject?”
Hanlon grinned and misquoted, “Life is real, life is earnest, and the gravy is my goal.” Then he sobered and said, “'Cause with money you can do anything. When I've made a big pile, then I can go where I want to go, be what I want to be, and make people know I'm somebody.”
Philander shrugged. “Maybe you're right, but I'd say there were better ways, George.”
Hanlon looked doubtful. “I have the utmost respect for your ideas and greater experience, sir, but what's better than a big wad of credits.”
Philander looked more seriously thoughtful than Hanlon had ever seen him before. He was silent a moment, then answered slowly, “This may sound 'old-mannish,' but I believe steady advancement in whatever work you choose; growing knowledge of many things; creative imagination put to constructive use; the growing respect and consequent advance in responsibility from your employers if you're working for someone, or from your neighbors if you're in business for yourself—those things are, in my opinion, of much greater value than the mere accumulation of money. And the best part of it is, that if you grow in those ways, that extra money will come to you, but merely as a corollary addition to the greater achievements.”
“I see your point,” Hanlon was greatly impressed by Philander's earnestness. “Maybe you're right. I'm still just a kid, I guess, with a kid's immature outlook. That's why I appreciate your friendship and advice so much, sir. You've been almost like a second father to me.” This was honest—he liked Philander now more than ever.
The look on the elder's face, too, defied description, but that he was secretly pleased was evident.
“Well, run along then, and I'll get at that letter. Meanwhile get your things packed, so you'll be ready to leave when the ship comes. And George, my boy, I do hope you come back. It'll be mighty lonely here without you.”
“I'll certainly do my best to get back, sir. Goodnight, and thanks again … for everything.”
Hanlon hated that seeming lie, and as he walked slowly back to his room he determined to get the man away from those plotters, and into a better and more legitimate position.
He would certainly so recommend to the Secret Service High Command after this mess was cleaned up.
The next days Hanlon spent almost his entire shift-time underground talking earnestly to Geck.
“I want to impress on the minds of you and all the natives here that I'll be working my hardest for them every minute I'm gone,” he said impressively. “Don't let them do anything foolish unless or until it becomes completely sure that I've failed. If I can do anything at all, it should be within a quarter year after I leave, and probably much sooner. If I succeed, you'll all be free, and these men either chased off your planet or killed.”
“All we understand, An-yon. We know you are true friend, know you want to help us. We will keep working, make no attempts to escape. We know if do we just be killed, or hunted and caught again. Condition of we before you come so bad we had come to feel only end for us be death of race. Now you bring hope. Now we know most humans good people, so we wait in hope you soon succeed.”
“That's the spirit. I know it's tough on all of you, but I also know what the Inter-Stellar Corps is, and what they can and will do when they learn of your plight.”
He linked his mind with Geck's as the latter telepathed the natives in other parts of the planet, and was thus enabled to get final descriptions of what they could tell of what was being done at each mine and factory and shipyard. He knew exactly how many ships had been built or were under construction, and approximately how far along the hulls of the big ones were completed. He was also able to get a very good general knowledge of the size and structural description of each type of vessel.
But of their armaments or propulsive methods he had not been able to get any information—such things were too far beyond the natives' simple abilities to describe or picture for him.
Hanlon's ability to telepath, through Geck, was growing much stronger, although he was still not able to telepath direct to any of the distant Guddus. He could, however, do so to some extent to one close by.
But he still could not read anything in a human mind except the surface thoughts. And how he could use that ability! With that, his task would be much simpler.
But he had learned to be content with what he had, realizing it was undoubtedly unique in human history. It had brought him this far along, and he had collected a lot of information which he could not have gained in any other manner—information that he could report to the Corps as soon as he got back to Simonides and had the chance to go to the bank or contact them in some other way.
“Liberation Day,” as Hanlon had taken to calling it in his mind, finally arrived. He was all packed and waiting for the ship. When it was sighted he and Philander went to the field to meet it.
When the captain came out, the three stood in conversation while the crew hurriedly unloaded the supplies they had brought, and those leaving had gone aboard. The captain handed Philander some letters, but the latter shoved them in his pocket for the time beings without stopping to look at them.
Finally it was time for blast-off, and Hanlon said his last farewells to the superintendent, then went in to stow his bags in his stateroom and prepare for take-off. He had expected to be locked in again, and merely tried the door out of curiosity. But to his surprise it wasn't locked, so he went out. He was wise enough not to attempt to invade the control room, but did hunt up a viewing-screen and strap himself into the chair before it.
He manipulated the dials and had just got an outside view as the pilot began activating the tubes. Hanlon saw Philander come running from the little path through the jungle, back toward the field, waving a letter, trying to attract attention.
But evidently neither the captain, pilot nor any watch officer saw him, for at that moment the great wash of flame from the tubes blotted out the scene, and Hanlon was forced deeply into his acceleration chair as the ship lifted gravs.
The trip back was uneventful. Hanlon kept careful track of the time, and strained all his spaceman's senses properly to evaluate their speed. As the ship braked for the landing on Simonides he completed his calculations, and was quite sure the distance between the two planets was twelve and a quarter light years, plus or minus not over two percent, and that Algon was somewhere near right ascension eighteen hours, and declination plus fifteen degrees.
As he passed through the airlock and started down the plank, he was surprised and a bit dismayed to see Panek and two of the other gunmen he had seen in that back room, waiting for him, their faces impassive and unreadable.
“A welcoming committee, eh?” he greeted them with a smile that tried to cover his disappointment. “Hiya, Panek! Hi, fellows!”
But his heart was doing flip-flops. These men were not here just because they were glad to see him, of that he was sure. He probed their minds and even before Panek spoke, he knew.
“The boss sent us to bring you to see him first thing, the boss did,” Panek's voice was gruff, yet somewhat friendly.
“That's mighty nice of him,” Hanlon tried not to let his feelings show, but to take this as a natural courtesy. But he had so much wanted to get to the bank immediately. “I was coming to report, of course,” he commented. “Got a letter for him from Superintendent Philander. Besides, I got a flock of credits coming. Boy, did I earn 'em! That's a stinking, hot planet up there. It'll be good seeing the bright lights again, besides living in a decent climate once more.”
The two men grunted a mysterious laugh, but Panek merely indicated the way to the aircar. Again Hanlon was blindfolded, but now he didn't care—he knew the location of this crater field.
There was silence during most of the trip. Hanlon babbled away at first, but when no one answered him he gradually slowed his words and finally shut up entirely.
His mind probings told him he was in for a rough time, and he got the feeling he was not supposed to be there at all, for some reason.
“Oh, oh!” he thought, almost in panic. “Something's wrong. Did I slip somewhere? Have they got wind of what I've learned? But how … how could they?”
Instead of taking him to the back room of the Bacchus, Hanlon found when the blindfold was finally removed that he was in a stone-walled room that he sensed was a sort of cellar in some huge building. It was bare of furniture except for two chairs and the glo-lights, one of which was on a standard like a spotlight.
Before he had time to try to puzzle things out, the door opened and the man he had thought of merely as “the leader” came in and sat down in one of the chairs. He gestured, and the men pushed Hanlon into the facing seat, and adjusted the glo-light so it shone in his eyes. Then ranged themselves behind him.
“So, you got back?” the Leader said softly.
“Sure,” Hanlon made himself act as though nothing was out of the way, but it was an effort to smile and talk naturally when his mouth was suddenly dry and his nerves tightened almost to the screaming point. “My time was up, so Mr. Philander sent me back. I've got a letter for you from him.”
He started to reach into his pocket, but Panek slapped his hand down, and snaked the letter out, handing it to the Leader, who opened it and read it silently.
Then the man looked up, his face puzzled. “You seem to have … uh … done very well there,” he said almost pleasantly. “Our superintendent reports you made an excellent guard. He seems very pleased with you.”
“I told you I'd do everything I could to make good,” Hanlon answered, but now he made his voice sound very aggrieved. “What's the big idea of all this? Seems like a mighty funny reception, after I tried so hard. Why that light in my eyes, and those thugs ready to slug me if I bat an eye-lash. It's almost like you don't trust me, or something?”
“I'm still not altogether sure we do,” the Leader said slowly.
“Still harping on that?” Hanlon demanded hotly. “What makes you think I'm not on the up and up? I worked hard on that stinking hot planet. I got out more ore'n anyone else ever did. And my suggestion about nitrates …”
“Ah, yes, the matter of the … uh … fertilizer. What made you bring that up?”
“The minute I saw those Greenies I guessed they were animated trees. When I saw how they fed themselves by sticking their fingers in the hut floor, I figured the dirt would gradually lose whatever nourishment it contained, same as a farmer's fields soon lose their fertility. All plants I know about extract nitrogen and other minerals from the soil. So I figured the Greenies would need fertilizer to make up for the depleted soil in their huts. It seemed simple to me.”
“Ummm. You were right, apparently. It was a great contribution to our work, and we are grateful.” He looked at Hanlon a long moment, then asked sharply, “How did Rellos die?”
“A dog tore out his throat.”
“We know that—but you said you killed him.”
“Who d'you suppose sicced the dog on him? We were walking down the street, and I kicked the dog's pup to death. When she charged, I pushed Rellos in her path, and it was him the dog killed.”
“Ah! Good! Very unusual! Most … uh … ingenious!” The Leader seemed pleased, but slowly his smile died and he frowned again. “All this makes me want to believe you, Hanlon, but somehow I can't seem to rid myself of the belief that you still are connected with the Corps. Oh, I know,” as Hanlon started to protest, “all about your dismissal and disgrace, and the fight you had with some of your former classmates a few days later. Incidentally, wasn't it rather straining coincidence that it was an admiral who came along just in time to save you? You see, all that could easily have been done on purpose. I'm … uh … not that simple, young man.”
“No, but you're nuts, figuring that way!” disgustedly.
“I think you will find out differently,” the tone sent shivers through the young SS man's nerves, and he had difficulty controlling the impulse to wet his suddenly dry lips. “I may be wrong—I hope most sincerely that I am—but I haven't so far been able to bring myself to feel so. But I intend to know for sure before we leave this room. Panek, bring in our other … uh … guest.”
Hanlon heard the gunman leave, and in a moment return. He appeared in Hanlon's line of vision, pushing before him a manacled man.
At sight of that other man, Hanlon had to gasp.